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WIVES AND DAUGHTERS
day of Roger’s departure. What business had any one had to speak
as if the chances of Osborne’s life being prolonged were infinitely
small, if in fact the matter was uncertain? She liked Osborne extremely, much better than Roger; and would gladly have schemed
to secure him for Cynthia, if she had not shrunk from the notion of
her daughter’s becoming a widow. For if Mrs. Gibson had ever felt
anything acutely it was the death of Mr Kirkpatrick, and, amiably
callous as she was in most things, she recoiled from exposing her
daughter wilfully to the same kind of suffering which she herself
had experienced. But if she had only known Dr Nicholls’ opinion
she would never have favoured Roger’s suit; never. And then Mr.
Gibson himself; why was he so cold and reserved in his treatment of
her since that night of explanation? She had done nothing wrong;
yet she was treated as though she were in disgrace. And everything
about the house was flat just now. She even missed the little excitement of Roger’s visits, and the watching of his attentions to Cynthia.
Cynthia too was silent enough; and as for Molly, she was absolutely
dull and out of spirits, a state of mind so annoying to Mrs. Gibson
just now, that she vented some of her discontent upon the poor girl,
from whom she feared neither complaint nor repartee.
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CHAPTER XXXVI.
DOMESTIC DIPLOMACY
The evening of the day on which Mr. Gibson had been to see
the squire, the three women were alone in the drawing-room, for
Mr Gibson had had a long round and was not as yet come in. They
had had to wait dinner for him; and for some time after his return
there was nothing done or said but what related to the necessary
business of eating. Mr. Gibson was, perhaps, as well satisfied with
his day’s work as any of the four; for this visit to the squire had
been weighing on his mind ever since he had heard of the state of
things between Roger and Cynthia. He did not like the having to
go and tell of a love affair so soon after he had declared his belief
that no such thing existed; it was a confession of fallibility which
is distasteful to most men. If the squire had not been of so unsuspicious and simple a nature, he might have drawn his own conclusions from the apparent concealment of facts, and felt doubtful
of Mr. Gibson’s perfect honesty in the business; but being what
he was, there was no danger of such unjust misapprehension. Still
Mr. Gibson knew the hot hasty temper he had to deal with, and
had expected more violence of language than he really encountered; and the last arrangement by which Cynthia, her mother,
and Molly – who, as Mr. Gibson thought to himself, and smiled
at the thought, was sure to be a peacemaker and a sweetener of
intercourse – were to go to the Hall and make acquaintance with
the squire, appeared like a great success to Mr. Gibson, for achieving which he took not a little credit to himself. Altogether, he was
more cheerful and bland than he had been for many days; and
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WIVES AND DAUGHTERS
when he came up into the drawing-room for a few minutes after
dinner, before going out again to see his town-patients, he whistled a little under his breath, as he stood with his back to the fire,
looking at Cynthia, and thinking that he had not done her justice
when describing her to the squire. Now this soft, almost tuneless
whistling was to Mr. Gibson what purring is to a cat. He could
no more have done it with an anxious case on his mind, or when
he was annoyed by human folly, or when he was hungry, than he
could have flown through the air. Molly knew all this by instinct,
and was happy without being aware of it, as soon as she heard the
low whistle which was no music after all. But Mrs. Gibson did not
like this trick of her husband’s; it was not refined she thought,
not even ‘artistic;’ if she could have called it by this fine word it
would have compensated her for the want of refinement. To-night
it was particularly irritating to her nerves; but since her conversation with Mr. Gibson about Cynthia’s engagement, she had not
felt herself in a sufficiently good position to complain.
Mr. Gibson began, – ’Well, Cynthia; I have seen the squire today, and made a clean breast of it.’
Cynthia looked up quickly, questioning with her eyes; Molly
stopped her netting to listen; no one spoke.
‘You’re all to go there on Thursday to lunch; he asked you all,
and I promised for you.’
Still no reply; natural, perhaps, but very flat.
‘You’ll be glad of that Cynthia, shan’t you?’ asked Mr. Gibson. ‘It
may be a little formidable, but I hope it will be the beginning of a
good understanding between you.’
‘Thank you!’ said she, with an effort. ‘But – but won’t it make it
public? I do so wish not to have it known, or talked about, not till
he comes back or close upon the marriage.’
‘I don’t see how it should make it public,’ said Mr. Gibson. ‘My
wife goes to lunch with my friend, and takes her daughters with her
– there’s nothing in that, is there?’
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ELIZABETH CLEGHORN GASKELL
‘I am not sure that I shall go,’ put in Mrs. Gibson. She did not
know why she said it, for she fully intended to go all the time; but
having said it she was bound to stick to it for a little while; and, with
such a husband as hers, the hard necessity was sure to fall upon her
of having to find a reason for her saying. There it came, quick and
sharp.
‘Why not?’ said he, turning round upon her.
‘Oh, because – because I think he ought to have called on Cynthia first; I’ve that sort of sensitiveness I can’t bear to think of her
being slighted because she is poor.’
‘Nonsense!’ said Mr. Gibson. ‘I do assure you, no slight whatever
was intended. He does not wish to speak about the engagement to
anyone – not even to Osborne – that’s your wish, too, is it not, Cynthia? Nor does he intend to mention it to any of you when you go
there; but, naturally enough, he wants to make acquaintance with
his future daughter-in-law. If he deviated so much from his usual
course as to come calling here – ’
‘I am sure I don’t want him to come calling here,’ said Mrs. Gibson, interrupting. ‘He was not so very agreeable the only time he
did come. But I am that sort of a character that I cannot put up with
any neglect of persons I love, just because they are not smiled upon
by fortune.’ She sighed a little ostentatiously as she ended her sentence.
‘Well, then, you won’t go!’ said Mr. Gibson provoked, but not
wishing to have a long discussion, especially as he felt his temper
going.
‘Do you wish it, Cynthia?’ said Mrs. Gibson, anxious for an excuse to yield.
But her daughter was quite aware of this motive for the question, and replied quietly, – ’Not particularly, mamma. I am quite
willing to refuse the invitation.’
‘It is already accepted,’ said Mr. Gibson, almost ready to vow that
he would never again meddle in any affair in which women were
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WIVES AND DAUGHTERS
concerned, which would effectually shut him out from all love affairs for the future. He had been touched by the squire’s relenting,
pleased with what he had thought would give others pleasure, and
this was the end of it!
‘Oh, do go, Cynthia!’ said Molly, pleading with her eyes as well
as her words. ‘Do; I am sure you will like the squire; and it is such a
pretty place, and he’ll be so much disappointed.’
‘I should not like to give up my dignity,’ said Cynthia, demurely. ‘And you heard what mamma said!’ It was very malicious of her.
She fully intended to go, and was equally sure that her mother was
already planning her dress for the occasion in her own mind. Mr
Gibson, however, who, surgeon though he was, had never learnt to
anatomize a woman’s heart, took it all literally, and was excessively
angry both with Cynthia and her mother; so angry that he did not
dare to trust himself to speak. He went quickly to the door, intending to leave the room; but his wife’s voice arrested him; she said, –
‘My dear, do you wish me to go? if you do, I will put my own
feelings on one side.’
‘Of course I do!’ he said, short and stern, and left the room.
‘Then I’ll go!’ said she, in the voice of a victim – those words
were meant for him, but he hardly heard them. ‘And we’ll have a
fly from the «George,» and get a livery-coat for Thomas, which I’ve
long been wanting, only dear Mr. Gibson did not like it, but on an
occasion like this I’m sure he won’t mind; and Thomas shall go on
the box, and – ’
‘But, mamma, I’ve my feelings too,’ said Cynthia.
‘Nonsense, child! when all is so nicely arranged too.’
So they went on the day appointed. Mr. Gibson was aware of
the change of plans, and that they were going after all; but he was
so much annoyed by the manner in which his wife had received an
invitation which had appeared to him so much kinder than he had
expected from his previous knowledge of the squire, and his wishes
on the subject of his sons’ marriages, that Mrs. Gibson heard nei-
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ELIZABETH CLEGHORN GASKELL
ther interest nor curiosity expressed by her husband as to the visit
itself, or the reception they met with. Cynthia’s indifference as to
whether the invitation was accepted or not had displeased Mr. Gibson. He was not up to her ways with her mother, and did not understand how much of this said indifference had been assumed in
order to countervent Mrs Gibson’s affectation and false sentiment,
But for all his annoyance on the subject, he was, in fact, very curious
to know how the visit had gone off, and took the first opportunity
of being alone with Molly to question her about the lunch of the
day before at Hamley Hall.
‘And so you went to Hamley yesterday after all?’
‘Yes; I thought you would have come. The squire seemed quite
to expect you.’
‘I thought of going there at first; but I changed my mind like
other people. I don’t see why women are to have a monopoly of
changeableness. Well! how did it go off? Pleasantly, I suppose, for
both your mother and Cynthia were in high spirits last night.’
‘Yes. The dear old squire was in his best dress and on his best
behaviour, and was so prettily attentive to Cynthia, and she looked
so lovely, walking about with him, and listening to all his talk about
the garden and farm. Mamma was tired, and stopped in-doors, so
they got on very well, and saw a great deal of each other.’
‘And my little girl trotted behind?’
‘Oh, yes. You know I was almost at home, and besides – of
course – ’ Molly went very red, and left the sentence unfinished.
‘Do you think she’s worthy of him?’ asked her father, just as if
she had completed her speech.
‘Of Roger, papa? oh, who is? But she is very sweet, and very, very
charming.’
‘Very charming if you will, but somehow I don’t quite understand her. Why does she want all this secrecy? Why was she not
more eager to go and pay her duty to Roger’s father? She took it as
coolly as if I’d asked her to go to church!’
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WIVES AND DAUGHTERS
‘I don’t think she did take it coolly; I believe I don’t quite understand her either, but I love her dearly all the same.’
‘Umph; I like to understand people thoroughly, but I know it’s
not necessary to women. D’ye really think she’s worthy of him?’
‘Oh, papa – ’ said Molly, and then she stopped; she wanted to
speak in favour of Cynthia, but somehow she could form no reply
that pleased her to this repeated inquiry. He did not seem much
to care if he got an answer or not, for he went on with his own
thoughts, and the result was that he asked Molly if Cynthia had
heard from Roger.
‘Yes; on Wednesday morning.’
‘Did she show it to you? But of course not. Besides, I read the
squire’s letter, which told all about him.’
Now Cynthia, rather to Molly’s surprise, had told her that she
might read the letter if she liked, and Molly had shrunk from availing herself of the permission, for Roger’s sake. She thought that he
would probably have poured out his heart to the one sole person,
and that it was not fair to listen, as it were, to his confidences.
‘Was Osborne at home?’ asked Mr. Gibson. ‘The squire said he
did not think he would have come back; but the young fellow is so
uncertain – ’
‘No, he was still from home.’ Then Molly blushed all over crimson, for it suddenly struck her that Osborne was probably with his
wife – that mysterious wife, of whose existence she was cognizant,
but of whom she knew so little, and of whom her father knew nothing. Mr. Gibson noticed the blush with anxiety. What did it mean?
It was troublesome enough to find that one of the squire’s precious sons had fallen in love within the prohibited ranks; and what
would not have to be said and done if anything fresh were to come
out between Osborne and Molly? He spoke out at once to relieve
himself of this new apprehension.
‘Molly, I was taken by surprise by this affair between Cynthia
and Roger Hamley – if there’s anything more on the tapis let me
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ELIZABETH CLEGHORN GASKELL
know at once, honestly and openly. I know it’s an awkward question
for you to reply to; but I would not ask it unless I had good reasons.’
He took her hand as he spoke. She looked up at him with clear,
truthful eyes which filled with tears as she spoke. She did not know
why the tears came; perhaps it was because she was not so strong as
formerly.
‘If you mean that you’re afraid that Osborne thinks of me as
Roger thinks of Cynthia, papa, you are quite mistaken. Osborne and
I are friends and nothing more, and never can be anything more.
That’s all I can tell you.’
‘It’s quite enough, little one. It’s a great relief. I don’t want to
have my Molly carried off by any young man just yet; I should miss
her sadly.’ He could not help saying this in the fulness of his heart
just then, but he was surprised at the effect these few tender words
produced. Molly threw her arms round his neck, and began to sob
bitterly, her head lying on his shoulder. ‘There, there!’ said he, patting her on the back, and leading her to the sofa, ‘that will do. I
get quite enough of tears in the day, shed for real causes, not to
want them at home, where, I hope, they are shed for no cause at all.
There’s nothing really the matter, is there, my dear?’ he continued,
holding her a little away from him that he might look in her face.
She smiled at him through her tears; and he did not see the look of
sadness which returned to her face after he had left her.
‘Nothing, dear, dear papa – nothing now. It is such a comfort to
have you all to myself – it makes me happy.’
Mr. Gibson knew all implied in these words, and felt that there
was no effectual help for the state of things which had arisen from
his own act. It was better for them both that they should not speak
out more fully. So he kissed her, and said, –
‘That’s right, dear! I can leave you in comfort now, and indeed
I’ve stayed too long already gossiping. Go out and have a walk –
take Cynthia with you, if you like. I must be off. Good-by, little one.’
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WIVES AND DAUGHTERS
His commonplace words acted like an astringent on Molly’s relaxed feelings. He intended that they should do so; it was the truest
kindness to her; but he walked away from her with a sharp pang at
his heart, which he stunned into numbness as soon as he could by
throwing himself violently into the affairs and cares of others.
469
CHAPTER XXXVII.
A FLUKE, AND WHAT CAME OF IT
The honour and glory of having a lover of her own was soon to
fall to Molly’s share; though to be sure it was a little deduction to
the honour that the man who came with the full intention of proposing to her, ended by making Cynthia an offer. It was Mr. Coxe,
who came back to Hollingford to follow out the purpose he had announced to Mr. Gibson nearly two years before, of inducing Molly
to become his wife as soon as he should have succeeded to his uncle’s estate. He was now a rich, though still a red-haired, young man.
He came to the ‘George’ Inn, bringing his horses and his groom;
not that he was going to ride much, but that he thought such outward signs of his riches might help on his suit; and he was so justly
modest in his estimation of himself that he believed that he needed
all extraneous aid. He piqued himself on his constancy; and indeed,
considering that he had been so much restrained by his duty, his
affection, and his expectations to his crabbed old uncle, that he had
not been able to go much into society, and very rarely indeed into
the company of young ladies, such fidelity to Molly was very meritorious, at least in his own eyes. Mr. Gibson too was touched by it,
and made it a point of honour to give him a fair field, all the time
sincerely hoping that Molly would not be such a goose as to lend
a willing ear to a youth who could never remember the difference
between apophysis and epiphysis. He thought it as well not to tell
his wife more of Mr Coxe’s antecedents than that he had been a former pupil; who had relinquished (all that he knew of, understood)
the medical profession because an old uncle had left him enough of
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